


I wish he'd go

by Tashilover



Series: Antigonish [3]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Gore, Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decided he was going to fight back.</p><p> </p><p>Final installment of the Antigonish series. (On permanent hiatus)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock has seen some truly, horrible shit. He could handle gory crime scenes, giant pools of blood, and has talked to some of the world's most infamous serial killers. But not even he could not walk away unaffected by a few things.

When he was sixteen he saw one of his classmates get clipped by a passing car. The boy ended up dying in Sherlock's arms. Despite Sherlock's best efforts, he never tracked down the car or the driver. The school picture of the boy still hanged in Sherlock's room, quietly reminding him to always be aware of his surroundings.

When he was ten, Mycroft went to the hospital to get his appendix taken out. During the family visit as Mycroft was resting, Sherlock snuck away, and went to the morgue. To avoid getting caught, Sherlock foolishly hid himself inside one of the body freezers and accidentally locked himself in. He was found two minutes later when he was screaming his head off, unable to get out. This resulted in his claustrophobia, though he would never admit he suffered from it.

He would gladly relive every moment over and over in exchange of never having to know who or what the tall man was.

It had been six months since the 'Water Side Gate Massacre'. Six months since the handprint appeared on Sherlock's upper arm, branding him like he were cattle. It had also been six months since the last time he's seen the tall man.

John said that this was 'normal'. That the tall man came and went as he pleased, sometimes disappearing for years at a time. There was no way in predicting his movements.

That didn't mean Sherlock didn't try. He looked at weather patterns. Earthquakes. Increases in crime. Decreases in crime. Birth rates. Miscarriages rates. Divorce rates. Strange animal behaviour. He interviewed mental patients. Death row inmates. Serial killers. He consulted psychology professors. Folklore professors. Sherlock even went so far as inviting a psychic over for tea. Within five minutes he was screaming at the woman, and throwing her out of the flat for being an idiot.

Nothing. If there was a pattern, he couldn't see it. If there was a rhyme or reason behind the tall man's actions, Sherlock couldn't deduce it. Mycroft told him to let it go. Sherlock told him to stuff it.

By the seventh month of silence, Sherlock found himself relaxing. He had no intention to, but such was the habit of a human being. Life slowly returned to what surpassed as normal for him, allowing him to drop his guard. On one Wednesday morning, when Sherlock was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, he was sorely reminded of the burden he, his brother, and John carried.

Sherlock bent down to rinse out his mouth, hearing nothing except for the dull chatter of the television in the background, and the rush of warm water from the tap. He wiped his mouth, and straightened up.

And there  _ **he**_  stood, right behind him.

Sherlock didn't move. Didn't breath. The Operator was so tall, his head could not be seen in the reflection of the mirror. All that was visible was his torso, standing no less than a few inches behind Sherlock. If Sherlock dared to breathe, suck in a lungful and expand his chest, he could probably touch the tall man with his shoulders.

He jumped when he suddenly felt two hands on his sides, touching his bare skin. It felt like a million little icicles were jabbing him, digging in deep.

What was he  _doing_ -?

The hands moved up, trailing inhumanely long fingers against him, each second of contact worse than the last. For an insane second, Sherlock thought the tall man was going to molest him, but the hands moved from his sides, went up to touch his shoulder blades-

They moved to wrap around his neck.

That's where they sat, not squeezing, their grip loose. Regardless, Sherlock couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't-

His eyes began to roll up to the back of his head.

He was found, five minutes later, convulsing on the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

"You need to stop treating him like you can figure out how to get rid of him! He is not a case, Sherlock, you're not going to figure him out. If you try, he will act in accordingly."

Mycroft was furious. Usually when John contacted him, Mycroft took his time to reply. However, in situations with the tall man, Mycroft did not hesitate. He came straight over, chastising Sherlock as soon as Mycroft walked through the door.

"Everything has a pattern," Sherlock said stubbornly. His neck showed no signs of trauma, no bruising or marks. Yet he could still feel phantom fingers around his skin. "Even the waves of the sea has patterns. He can be figured out."

"You'll be  _dead_  before you even got close."

"I'm going to be dead either way! I might as well try to do something with my life instead of watching it dwindle down to nothingness, like you idiots!"

That was when Mycroft punched him. He struck Sherlock across the cheek, knocking him down to the floor. John was on Mycroft in a second, putting himself between the two brothers, holding out his hands, warning him to keep bay.

"You fucking child," Mycroft spat. "You think your actions only affect  _you_? Do you remember Jenny? Do you?"

"Jenny?" Sherlock mumbled hotly, rubbing at his face. "Wha... you told me she left to go study overseas."

"Who's Jenny?" John asked, annoyed that he was being kept out of the loop.

Mycroft was gripping his umbrella so tightly, his knuckles were turning white. He had a small scratch on his knuckle from punching Sherlock, and the tighter he held on, the more tension he put on the scratch. Finally, the skin split opened and a small trickle of blood bubbled out. "Jenny was our nanny when we were boys," Mycroft finally said. He took out his handkerchief from his coat pocket, dapping his knuckle as he spoke. "She was one of the few adults in our lives who didn't treat us like illiterate children, though children we were. We liked her, Sherlock and I."

John helped Sherlock off the floor. He tried to inspect the bruise across Sherlock's cheek, but was shrugged off.

"I've known about the Operator long before then. It wasn't until shortly after I turned eleven I found out  _what_  he is. What he is capable of. So naturally, I told someone. I told Jenny, thinking an  _adult_  could help me."

Mycroft suddenly laughed, ugly and deep. "I  _told_  you Jenny left for university. I wanted to spare you the mental image. I found her, Sherlock, in her room. She was literally turned  _inside out_."

An involuntary shudder ran through Sherlock. Jenny. She was only twenty-two. When she left so abruptly, Sherlock had well and truly  _hated_  her for not even bothering to say goodbye. He thought she would at least write, send a postcard or something. To now learn what really had happened to her...

Though Sherlock had not seen the aftermath of the carnage that took place in the warehouse, Donovon and several others have gone to see specialized psychiatrists. At least three officers had already quit.

"You think this only affects you?" Mycroft continued. "Death is a mercy. If you make him angry, he won't have to  _touch_  you to hurt you."

 

 

 

 

 

"Do you agree with him?" Sherlock asked.

John was busying himself making tea. He didn't answer the question right away, focusing on the task at hand. He waited till he finally put the kettle on the stove, turned around and said, "I don't know. He's the one with the most experience."

"You've seen the tall man since you've been a child too."

"Not to the extent he has. The Operator has never touched any of my family members, at least not that I know of. He made me vomit, one time. God, that was horrifying."

"I don't like this," Sherlock said. "I don't like being unable to fight back or defend myself."

Even worse, their inevitable  _fate_  was to disappear one day. One day the tall man was going to collect them all, possibly send them to some unknown place where only he could touch them. It could be a hell or a paradise. Either way, Sherlock didn't want to go, not without a fight.

John poured tea for the both of them. He placed one steaming mug down in front of Sherlock before taking his own seat across from him. John then took a small sip, careful of the heat, and said, "So what do you want to do?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted. "I don't have a plan of attack. Now it's just a matter of waiting and seeing what pops up."

"Do you honestly believe you can defeat him?"

"Everything has a weakness, John. Even him."

Outside, it started to snow. Through the flowery white curtains Mrs. Hudson bought them, Sherlock could see the fluff drifting down slowly. Across the street the neighbours hung up their Christmas lights, and they blinked happily with reds, greens, and blues. It was such an odd moment, as peaceful as it was. Sherlock knew this may well end with all of them eviscerated like slaughter pigs, gutted and displayed for all the world to see.

He took a sip of tea, suddenly very aware this was going to be the last Christmas he was ever going to see.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello, this is Anna Betman. I am at Baskerville, investigating the odd happenings that have been reported here."

Anna was young, nineteen, Asian-American. Tall, skinny girl, with large teeth, freckles, dyed hair, and a faint scar across her cheek. Childhood injury. If Sherlock looked hard enough, he could the other scars her makeup hid. She probably fell off her bicycle, and horribly scraped her face. It was hard to tell from the way the camera kept shaking.

"According to the local stories around here," Anna continued, scanning her camera across the large open field. Mostly flatlands, in the far background cars could be seen driving. Wind kept rushing past the microphone, creating constant white noise. "A strange creature could be seen walking through these fields during the day. People say it looks like a man, a  _naked_  man, but when they take a second look, they realize this man is walking on all fours, his skin is white as milk, and his eyes glowing."

Anna's youtube channel were full of videos like this. She was a amateur paranormal investigator between her classes at the university. She has explored abandoned mental hospitals, broken down churches, cemeteries, and quite a few wooded areas. Nothing she has explored ever suggested it was occupied, let alone haunted. Sherlock found her youtube channel horribly dull. She had over fifty thousand subscribers though.

The video cut briefly, and in the next scene, Anna was in the woods. She was silent as she let the camera take in the environment. Wherever she was, she was clearly alone. The trees were so thick, the sunlight barely shined through the leaves. For the moment, all that could be heard were Anna's footsteps, crunching on dried leaves.

In Sherlock's peripheral, he could see Lestrade pursing his lips, steadying himself for what was coming next. He has already seen this video. It wasn't going to be easy, watching it a second time.

"Now I can see why people are spooked of this place," Anna said. "Besides its isolation, it's very  _quiet_  out here."

She walked a few more feet, the camera shifting from side to side with her pace.

"Man, I don't want to sound like a cliche, but it's  _too_  quiet. I don't know if my camera is picking up on this, but I can't hear any birds. No crickets, no bugs, I can't even hear the  _wind_. My ears are buzzing from lack of sound. It's very disorienting."

Something spooked her. She twirled the camera around violently, trying to catch whatever she may have just seen or heard. The camera showed nothing. "Okay," Anna said, gulping down breaths. "I'm officially scared now. I heard this... scrapping noise. I-"

She paused. The camera dipped for two seconds, then she started screaming.

"OH MY GOD! OH GOD! NO! NO, NO, NO, STAY AWAY!"

The next few seconds were a blur as Anna ran, still holding the camera. The shaking was too much to see what she was running from. A few times she lifted up the camera long enough to get her perspective as she ran through the woods. The screen was disorienting, almost too sickening to watch. Sherlock never looked away though he felt the familiar nausea of motion sickness creeping up in his throat. At one point Anna turned the camera behind to catch a glance at whatever was chasing her. Nothing could be seen, and yet Anna merely ran faster.

The screen went black for ten long seconds. Anna's crying could still be heard.

When the image finally came back on again, she was limping across the field. In the far distance, at least four hundred feet away, was her car. Slowly she moved towards it, the camera jerking up and down due to her limp. Finally, she turned the camera around to show herself.

Holding the camera from her hand, it viewed her from mostly from the angle underneath her chin. Half of her face could still be seen. The right side of her face had been  _shredded_. It was like she had been in a fight with a dog. As she moved, bits of skin from her cheek swayed back and forth, drizzling blood everywhere.

"I..." she sniffled. "I don't think I'm going to make it..."

She sobbed at this revelation, her hold on the camera going lack. At this Sherlock caught the sight of the mess of her shoulder. He could see her muscle.

"If someone finds this camera," Anna continued, bringing the camera back up to her face. "Please tell my parents I love them... and that I'm sorry for anything I've said or done to upset them. Please tell my brother that I'm sorry I won't see him marry next year. I..."

She stopped. Her head turned, peering over her bleeding shoulder. "I think..." she said in a breath of relief. "I think I'm alone now. I think-"

Those were her last words. The camera suddenly dropped, landing in the grass. The camera showed the car, a mere fifty feet away.

Anna was screaming. No words, no pleads, just primal fear. There were snapping noises, splattering sounds, and Anna's screams were suddenly cut off, replaced by a wet gurgling noise. Once the gurgling ceased, all that could be heard was the sound of flesh slapping, and fabric tearing.

Then there was silence.

At this point, Sherlock thought Lestrade would turn the video off, now that they've witnessed the horrible murder of Anna Betman. Lestrade didn't move from his spot. His eyes were still trained on the screen, leaning his mouth against his knuckles.

A few seconds later, a foot appeared in front of the camera.

Not Anna's. This foot was shoeless, sock-less. The moment Sherlock saw it, he unconsciously swallowed. The foot was pale white, the colour of milk. Its nails were at least an inch long, thin, ending at a sharp point. Its bony ankle was splattered with blood, while a thin piece of intestine sat between the toes.

The foot only appeared for a few seconds, then it stepped out of frame.

"The battery runs out a few minutes after this," said Lestrade, stepping over and turning off the video feed. "Anna was found a few feet away from her camera. The local police are still trying to find the other half of her body."

"Other  _half_?" John asked in horror.

"Which half?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade looked between them, then took Sherlock's question. "Her upper half," he said. "The local police asked for our help. Can you two handle it?"

John said nothing. He unconsciously placed a hand over his stomach, right over the mark sitting underneath his jumper. Sherlock wanted to tell him the thing in the video was not  _him_. It was something else, something they haven't seen before.

And Sherlock wanted to know what. "Yes, of course. When do we leave?"


End file.
